


Uneasy Rider

by thebasement_archivist, Ursula



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-07-10
Updated: 2001-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-20 09:17:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11332833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ursula/pseuds/Ursula
Summary: Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived atThe Basement, which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onThe Basement's collection profile.





	Uneasy Rider

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Uneasy Rider by Jennie and Ursula

Title: Uneasy Rider  
Author/pseudonym: Jennie and Ursula  
Fandom: X-Files  
Pairing: Mulder and Krycek  
Rating: NC-17 and T for twisted   
Status: Complete   
Archive: Anywhere, as a complete story. If you have a constructive critique and wish to use a portion, contact me directly.  
E-Mail Address for Feedback: and or   
Series/Sequel: Is this story part of a series: Stand Alone  
Other websites:   
Jennie's Page at RATB: http://fullhouseslash.slashcity.net/hosted/Jennie.htm#other And: http://www.squidge.org/~drruthless/jennie/jennieslist.htm   
Ursula's page at RATB, thanks to Ned & Leny: http://www.squidge.org/terma/ursula/ursula.htm  
Disclaimers: Not our characters. No money made.  
Warnings: Um, rampant silliness ahead. Foul language, M/M sex (of the M/K variety)  
Time Frame: Takes place sometime between Ascension and Paperclip.  
Notes: Written for the Undercover cycle of Pollyanna's Lyric Wheel. The song lyrics are at the end of the story. Thanks to Teri and Sue for the beta.

* * *

Uneasy Rider  
By Ursula and Jennie  
Lyric Wheel challenge

Damn Harley! Alex kicked at the malingering bike and stubbed his toes. Limping he pushed the bike up to the telephone booth he had spotted. Wet and exhausted, he huddled in his battered leather jacket and stuffed his long hair up beneath his baseball cap. The yellow pages were eight pages, half of it bars, and a further quarter of it churches. However, there was one garage listed. Alex called the place and got the usual, flatly-nasal, North Dakota voice. "Stew's Garage, what can I do you for?"

"I have a Harley that stuttered and bailed on me. I think it's the carburetor," Alex said, "How far are you from...uh, just a second."

Craning his head into the sleet, Alex saw the blinking red and blue sign. He said, "I'm at the White Sot,"

"White Spot," the mechanic corrected, "if I told Melville once, I told him a dozen times; git that 'p' replaced, but no, he's too cheap. He says everyone in town knows it's the White Spot and foreigners better watch what they say. Well, you are a piece down the road. You just stay put, Mister. Uh mister?"

"Al Arneson. So when can you get here?" Alex asked.

"Give me a few. I got this hearse to get back on the road. Fancy folks down the road want to ship their dearly departed to a warmer place to be buried. Don't want to wait for the thaw like us poor country folks," Stew said. There was a spitting noise, followed by a hawking liquid snort. "You just mind your manners and have a beer and a pot pie. Melville does a nice pot pie if I say so."

"All right, this is a Harley, a classic Harley, can you work on it?" Alex said.

"Cut my teeth on them," Stew promised, "I'm a man of principal. I'll work on a Harley or an Indian, but none of them rice burners. A man's got to have pride or he's less than a man."

OoooOOOoooo

The bar smelled of sweat, beer, and stale crotches. Alex made sure his baseball cap was tight on his head, holding up his long, loose hair. He hadn't had a haircut since he'd left the bureau, and his fine hair was by now long enough to cover his ears; it flew into his eyes if he was not careful. At first, he had been too depressed even to think about his appearance, then Spender complained about the length, and as a result, Alex stubbornly refused to cut it. He might have had it trimmed soon though. He was on the run from his boss. There had been an unguarded safe; he'd been sent back to fetch Spender's briefcase, and the road had opened up for Alex. The first thing he had bought was the big Harley, a rumbling bitch of a gasoline hog, but it felt as good between his legs as he imagined Mulder would.

The crotch of his jeans felt tighter all of a sudden at the thought of his ex-partner. Mulder was a big puppy. Alex had been given many chances to observe the size of that torpedo. He wasn't sure if he could really accommodate the whole thing, but a guy could die happy trying. Alex snorted. The die part was more likely than the rest. Mulder no doubt still wanted to kill him. 

The burly bartender, a big man the size and shape of a grizzly bear, shambled over. He flopped a menu down in front of Alex, but Alex pushed it away, saying, "Stew says to order the pot pie."

Surprisingly, behind the formidable exterior beat the heart of the chef. Alex feigned interest as the man expounded on the virtues of fresh peas, baby carrots, and the merest touch of basil in the seasoning. It didn't hurt to butter the man up; Alex made a point of garnering as much support as he could in any situation. Unlike Mulder, he could not afford to piss people off on principal. Finally done with his discourse on the history of pot pie, the galumphing gourmet returned to his kitchen to produce the item in question. Meanwhile, the barmaid, a plump and vacuous looking blonde in her forties, drew Alex a beer and leaned down to display her blue-ribbon-at-the-country-fair-cow-barn prize-winning mammary glands. Alex pretended a shy look and then blushed becomingly. She looked pleased and turned her attention back to two men in cowboy hats and sweatshirts with deer painted on them.

Sipping the beer, Alex blended back into the scenery as he had learned to do from early childhood. An alcoholic father and a hysterical, bitter mother had left him with the desire to blend into whatever group seemed to promise safety. Spender had refined that talent into an art form; now Alex slumped, hiding his height, the cap shadowing his eyes, his corner seat allowing him to observe without being seen.

OoooOOOoooo

Bored and miserable in the sleet which had been coming down all week, Mulder found a grim consolation in the resolution of their latest case. He and Scully had traced illegal, fully-automatic weapons to this remote and dismal area of the country. A few months earlier, the North Dakota town might have been picturesque under a blanket of snow. Now, it was merely dirty, cold, and depressing.

Flooding gutters sloshed over onto the sidewalk concealing patches of ice, which could - and had - landed Scully on her ass. Mulder had ruined a pair of shoes slogging along with a unit of evidence response team agents through a soggy and manure-piled field. They had evidence of major arms deals, a nervous farmer already talking deals, and a clean collar of thirteen high-ranking militiamen. Maybe, this would get Mulder off the shit list for a while. 

The morning after his shoes had been ruined, Mulder set off on a shopping expedition. He finally managed to locate a small, men's apparel shop above the Feed-n-Seed. The range of choices was limited, but the old-fashioned wing tips he finally settled on were far and away better than any of the dizzying array of boots he'd seen at the Army Navy store. 

Selection made, he followed the garrulous saleslady, Alma, to the counter. When he pulled out his Amex to pay, she appeared to be a bit taken aback. She studied it intently, then studied him, a slight frown wrinkling her forehead. Reaching under the counter, she pulled out a sheaf of paperwork. Mulder leaned across to see what she was reading and wasn't all that surprised to note that she held one of those lists that the credit card companies sent out with stolen and cancelled card numbers as a courtesy to merchants. 

Mumbling to herself, Alma paged carefully through the sheets, stopping to check his card number with alarming frequency. Every once in a while, she glanced at him over the top of her glasses - each time, Mulder offered what he hoped was a charming and reassuring smile.

Alma did not appear to be either charmed or reassured. An interminable amount of time later, she set the pages aside and reached for the phone. "I hate ta keep ya waitin', mister, but these days a body jest can't be too careful. Why only last year, Woody over at the Mercantile got taked for thirty dollars by a man with a stolen MasterCard. Mah husband insists that ah call in any credit card purchase nowadays. Won't take but a minute."

Mulder sighed and wandered away to study the selection of long underwear. Who'd have thought there were so many variations on that particular theme? 

The bell over the door tinkled, announcing another customer. "Ruby!" Alma greeted enthusiastically. "How's Oswald today? I heard that old cow of his kicked him."

"Oh, he's fine, Alma. You know Oswald - once Doc tole him he should stay in bed fer a couple of days, he was up and runnin'. Why, he ain't hardly limpin' any longer. 'Sides, hiz wife is probably glad fer the break from her conjugal duties."

The two shared a chillingly girlish giggle at Oswald's expense, and Mulder moved further away, pretending to weigh the merits of flannel-lined jeans versus flannel-lined corduroys. 

"Lissen, Alma, ah jest couldn't wait to run over an' tell ya," Ruby leaned forward and boomed secretively. "The ladies quiltin' circle over in Terma found Jolene Whittaker in the church parking lot this mornin'."

"No!" Alma exclaimed. 

"They sure did!" Ruby confirmed. "An', she was nekkid as a jaybird."

Apparently overcome by the information, Alma set the phone down and gave Ruby her undivided attention. "But, ah thought she run off with that no good third cousin of hers."

Ruby nodded sagely. "That's what we all thought. But when the ladies brought her into the clinic, she kept babbling about lights an' probes an' sech. Swears she's been flyin' around in a *Space Ship*!"

"Oh mah gawd!" Alma laid one hand upon her ample breasts. "The poor thing, done lost her mind!"

"Well, you know that family. After all, her momma got right peculiar after she went through-" Ruby paused to shoot a coy look in Mulder's direction, then leaned closer to Alma and spoke from behind one hand. "*The Change*."

Alma was so stunned by the news that she wrote up Mulder's charge slip on autopilot; all thoughts of credit authorization apparently having gone right out of the proverbial window.

"An'," Ruby continued. "That's not all. Butch Sanderson disappeared last night."

"Oh dear lord!" Alma sank down to sit on the chair behind her. "Whatever will his wife do! Why, they jest had twins."

"Ah know, ah know." Ruby shook her head mournfully. "Ah can't imagine what could've happened. Sheriff found his truck by the side of the road this mornin' - right outside of Terma. Said ever'thin' looked normal. Said there weren't even any footprints leadin' away from it."

Mulder had slowly moved closer and closer as the conversation progressed. Damn! *This* was his kind of a case. Right up his alley, so to speak. He signed the charge slip Alma had abandoned in her shock, tore off his own copy, and made a quick retreat.

He couldn't wait to get back and tell Scully. An X-File. A real X-File! Right here in the middle of nowhere. He just knew she'd be as excited as he was at the opportunity to investigate something like this. 

To his surprise, Scully said, "I have an appointment in a spa, an entire weekend that Melissa bought me. I'm not going to miss this to chase swamp-gas."

"If that's how you feel..." Mulder said resentfully.

"Mulder, try to stay out of trouble...one of the best things about this spa is that cell phones are not allowed. They won't let anything short of a family death disturb a guest," Scully said.

"Hey, no problem, I just want to ask a few questions...I'm going in undercover," Mulder said.

Shuddering, Scully turned back and said, "Why do I have the premonition that you're going to get in over your head again? Wait, don't answer that. It's not an X-File, Mulder, it's a prediction based on your past exploits."

Still sulking, Mulder followed Scully into the hotel, where they took the rickety elevator to the third floor. Mulder packed his bags before donning the disguise he had selected. A gag store purchase temporarily made his teeth mossy green with darker spots. Hair oil plastered his spiked hair flat and unflatteringly to his head. A baggy pair of second-hand Levi's topped with a camouflage sweatshirt which bore a bullseye design on the front completed the disguise. He wore old boots from the same thrift store that had yielded his clothing. Letting his back sag and his shoulders slump, Mulder grinned at himself in the mirror. Fox Mulder had disappeared; no one would be expecting to find him in this caricature.

After dropping Scully at the airport, Mulder switched the Budget Car for a truck he had rented from a local. His thousand-dollar deposit was more than the value of the truck; it sputtered and moved in a jerky manner as if looking for a place to die. A tattered blanket that still could not pad Mulder's ass from the springs that tormented it covered the seat. Patches of rust hung like fur being shed from the body. The floor was worn through at one spot allowing a view of the road.

Another bribe had bought him the information that the place to go in Terma was a bar called the White Spot on the edge of town. Mulder had no trouble finding the place, which sported a neon sign missing a 'p' and had an illustration of a gyrating woman, with a blinking 'O' on her belly. The parking lot was full. Just as he pulled into the lot, a Harley Davidson was being hauled onto a tow truck. Mulder glanced at the bike without a great deal of interest and found a large spot into which to maneuver the truck.

The bar was very full and Mulder settled in at the last empty table to study the clientele. No one seemed to take much note of his presence - probably all gossiping about Jolene and Butch. 

Shortly, a trio entered. Two were large men with weather-worn faces. A garishly made up woman, who looked as if she had some Indian in her background, accompanied them. Red lipstick daubed her broad lips and she laughed loudly before plunking down at Mulder's table. She said, "Hi, honey, I'm Wilma and who are you, you handsome thing?"

Mulder smiled genially and trotted out his rehearsed cover story. "Hi, I'm Marty Herbert from over Minot. I came out to look at the Jenkin's place. It belongs to my cousin, Frank. He was worried about vandals, so I volunteered to stop an' check on my way back from the auction in Jeromesville today," Mulder said.

The two men with Wilma sat down and Mulder bought a round of drinks. He listened to local gossip with ill-concealed impatience, knowing that the talk would eventually turn to the strange events that had taken place over the past 12 hours or so. 

ooooOOOOoooo

Christ on a damned crutch. Even here, hell west of Bumfuck, he wasn't safe. What the HELL was Mulder doing here?

And, more importantly, what had the man done to himself? He looked... Jesus H. Christ, his TEETH were green. Krycek shuddered and shoved the few remnants of his pot pie aside, appetite gone. He took another swallow of his beer, and surreptitiously watched Mulder. 

Surprisingly, his ex-partner seemed to be fitting in just fine. A little too well, actually. With another shudder of distaste, Krycek just KNEW that his favorite jerk-off fantasies would be forever intruded upon by this... this horrible version of Mulder.

Well, seeing as Mulder appeared to be completely entranced by the words coming from the bearded behemoth sitting at his table, Krycek decided that now was as good a time as any to get the hell out of there. He threw several bills on the bar next to his nearly empty plate and tugged down on the bill of his cap. Satisfied that the admittedly weak disguise camouflaged half of his face, Krycek climbed off of his barstool and meandered casually towards the front door.

The woman at Mulder's table rose to her feet and turned to head in his direction. As he was about to pass her, Krycek ducked his head and avoided meeting her eyes. Just as he drew abreast of Mulder's table, the behemoth stood and grabbed his shoulder.

"Hey, wassa matter with you, boy?" He leaned forward and spoke directly into Alex's face. Flinching back from the blast of foul breath, Krycek frantically searched his mind in the vain hope of identifying the source of his apparent insult to the man. 

"Ah," he hedged, trying like hell to keep his head turned in such a way that Mulder wouldn't see his face. "Sorry, mister..."

"Don't tell ME yore sorry, boy," the man rumbled at him. He forcefully shoved Krycek around until he faced the woman still standing at the table, a satisfied smirk adding to the uneven line of her sloppily applied lipstick. "You tip your hat to this lady, son." 

Aw hell. The second redneck at the table pushed his chair back and rose to his feet, looming threateningly as Krycek hesitated. 

"You okay, Wilma?" he asked solicitously of the "lady" in question.

"Yeah, Oswald, I'm jest fine," she answered.

The bearded one, still holding Krycek by one shoulder, growled with impatience and stared meaningfully at the ball cap still atop Krycek's head.

Giving in to the inevitable, Krycek sighed and removed his hat and nodded to Ginny. "My apologies, ma'am," he started to say.

"Hey, lookee here, Little Jim," Oswald crowed. "You done caught yourself a gen-yoo-ine hippy."

All three seemed to find this observation positively hilarious. As the three enjoyed a great belly laugh at his expense, Krycek hung in one of Little Jim's meaty paws, each guffaw that rolled through the man's massive frame making him twitch in reaction.

And Mulder... Shit, shit, shit. He'd been recognized. The agent jumped up from his chair and started for Krycek, blood in his eye. And, as Mulder stepped closer, Krycek saw his chance. As soon as Mulder came within range, Krycek kicked him in the knee, and twisted his body, lithely breaking the hold on his shoulder. Rather than run, he decided a little... er, deflection might be in order.

Grabbing the chair recently vacated by good old Wilma, Krycek held it by the ladder- back, waving it in Mulder's direction in the best tradition of lion - and Fox - tamers the world over. "Watch him, folks. I know this guy - he works for the GOVERNMENT."

Every eye in the bar turned to study Mulder suspiciously. Still hopping about, clutching at the knee so abused by Krycek's steel-toed boot, Mulder was oblivious to the fact that he'd become the center of attention. "Godamn no good back-stabbing sonofabitch," Mulder cursed. "You're going to jail this time, Kry-"

"He's with the FBI," Krycek yelled loudly.

A rumble went through the room and everyone moved a step closer. To Mulder. 

Alex looked out the window and saw that his bike was gone. He was going to have to use his wits to get out of here.

Pointing his finger at Mulder, Alex took a step nearer the door. "He's not just an FBI agent. He's a faggot FBI agent! Why, him and J. Edgar used to go shopping for dresses together. I have it from a reliable source."

"Oh mah sweet Jesus, I've been drinking beer with a pinko faggot fed! I'm gonna toss my cookies!" Oswald gasped out.

Meanwhile, Little Jim had pawed through Mulder's grimy clothing and sure enough the beautiful idiot was still carrying his FBI ID. The man shook Mulder and said, "We got us another one!"

Alex had run out of there, popping into an unlocked car to hide. He peeped over the door to see Mulder being dragged out of the bar into the parking lot. Naturally, he was bleeding from a head wound. Rolling down the car window a crack, Alex heard, "Gonna tar and feather you, FBI man!"

'Oh shit!' Alex leaned his forehead against the car door thinking. He thought and then he thought again. Fucking crazy, you are so fucking crazy! His former partner would just as well as kill him as see him. Getting Scully back hadn't done much for his disposition. He'd gone for Alex like a mad bull seeing red.

On the other hand, Alex had never seen anyone tarred and feathered. He hot-wired the car, an old Buick Riviera; a big, boat-tailed wonder. Beneath that hood, lay the heart of a Cadillac. Hell, it was worth stealing on general principals alone. He'd always wanted one of these.

Alex joined several other vehicles in progress out of the lot. The big man who had manhandled him sat imperiously in the bed of an old pick-up; Mulder still tucked beneath his arm. You just had to shudder to think about what that soiled and sweat-soaked armpit smelled like from up close.

The little procession wound out town. Alex pulled out as they turned down a lane. The man in the front car got out to struggle with a gate that appeared to have been made from the metal frame of a mattress spiked through with barbed wire. He yelled and danced around, waving his hand after he snagged it on a prong. 

"Mother fucking gate, Jim, what's wrong with a regular gate?" the character yelled.

Little Jim leaned over the side of the Dodge truck's bed and shouted back, "My daddy made that gate. It's a good gate. Keeps the critters in and the varmints out. If it was good enough for my daddy, it's damn right good enough for the likes of you."

The truck and the two carloads of rednecks progressed down the road. One of them fastened the gate loosely behind them. Now the sensible thing to do was for Alex to take off. Get his bike and keep on going.

Turning that Riviera around, Alex looked at the floorboard and picked up an eight- track. Damn, it was a time warp! But what the hell? A band called the Kentucky Headhunters? He had to hear that. 

(Besides it would drown out Mulder's cries as they dribbled hot tar all over his tender body. Shit! Shut up guilt!)

Plugging the eight-track into the player, Alex heard, "You say you're sorry once again, dear. You want me to take you back once more. You say you need a helping hand, dear. That's what you told me once before."

Leaning his chin on the steering wheel, Alex told himself, 'Mulder asked for it. He did. No skin off my back...'

Bet that felt like hell having hot tar on your skin. What happened afterwards? Alex wasn't sure if the poor guys lived through it or not. Burns hurt and Mulder had such tender skin, such smooth skin, so pretty. Too pretty to be messed up by a bunch of rednecks! Alex resolutely captured the shotgun from the back seat, patted his automatic in its small-of-the-back holster, checked his ankle holster, and got ready to rock and roll.

ooooOOOOoooo

Something was burning. It smelled like a freshly tarred street. Mulder moaned and stirred as rough hands stripped off his disguise, leaving him only the minimal dignity of his boxers. A filthy thumb lifted the waistband of his boxers and the huge man from the bar said, "Hooo whee! Take a look at the scud missile in this guy's pants!"

"That's disgusting, Little Jim," Oswald snapped. "Now where are the feathers?"

"Fox got all of my chickens last week. Don't have no feathers," Little Jim replied, scratching under his arms. 

"Well, get a pillow then. He's skinny, one'll be plenty." Oswald said.

"You can't do this to me!" Mulder protested, "My partner is right in the next town."

"Done it before. Done it to the census man who come spying. And the Revenue man," Oswald mused, his thick tongue curling over his raw pork chops of lips. 

"Then there was the bible salesman..." Little Jim said.

"Well, that 'un was a mistake. Jesus, Jim, telling everyone he was selling commie literature!" Oswald remarked, stirring the pot of roofing tar.

"Well, he was lording it over me that I couldn't read. Besides those were all New Testaments. Probably was a commie. A bible-selling commie!" Little Jim commented.

"If you wasn't my cousin twice-over on both sides, I'd whup you one, Jim. I truly would," Oswald stated. "Now, get the pillow so we can get on with this!"

"I'm out of the feather pillows. Got me all those foam rubber ones, three for ten at Wal-mart," Little Jim announced.

"Well, that ain't right," a skinny old man remarked, "Can't rightly tar and foam rubber a man. Ain't decent."

Rubbing his chin, Little Jim said, "Well, hell, if it's good enough for Wal-mart, it's good enough for this F-B-fucking-I man."

"He's got a point," said a pink-skinned blond man who might have been handsome if he weren't missing most of his teeth as well as a jagged bite of ear. "Foam rubber will stick just fine."

Whimpering, Mulder shivered on the cold ground as the man-mountain named Little Jim took off to get the pillows. Not only was he going to be tortured to death, but also he was going to be a foolish corpse. "Jesus Christ, you could at least send out for real feathers! No one tars and foam-rubbers anyone...all the other terrorists are going to find out and laugh at you."

A huge fist slammed into him and Mulder went nighty-night for the second time in the last four hours.

ooooOOOOooo

"Damn!" Krycek winced in sympathy as he watched Mulder collapse back to the ground, unconscious again. "Only Mulder... This could only happen to Mulder. Where the hell are your aliens when you need them, Mulder?"

He pulled the car as close to the gate as possible, turning it so they could make a fast escape once he'd managed to get the man away from the ravening mob. Climbing out, he slung the shotgun over his shoulder and, after a brief struggle, got the gate open. As he walked up to join the crowd, he hoped Little Jim was distracted enough by the tarring part of the operation that he wouldn't notice that the gate gaped open enough for a man to slip through.

As he approached the fringes of the mob, Krycek suddenly and inexplicably felt every hair on his body rise. He shook his head in confusion. What the hell -

"DAMN!" Oswald yelled, pointing to the eastern sky. "What in gawd's name is THAT?"

As one, Krycek and the crowd turned to look. Again as one, they all stood staring gape-jawed at the sight they beheld. It was a ship. A great BIG mother of a ship. Krycek had been forced to view Mulder's collection of UFO photos often enough to identify the object immediately as an actual alien ship.

Slowly, majestically, the object glided close, until it hovered over the still and silent group of men. A column of light shone from its underbelly, sweeping the crowd back and forth. A cacophony of shrieks, moans and the occasional call for 'Mommy' could be heard coming from the men. After a moment, the light settled on Little Jim. Ever so slowly, the behemoth rose up into the light as the ship rotated and started moving off to the south.

"Jim!" Oswald screamed. "C'mon boys - it's got mah cousin."

Oswald in the lead, the assembled company took off running across the field in pursuit of the ascending form of Jim. 

Shaking off his own shock, Krycek dashed forward and grabbed Mulder, throwing him over one shoulder in a fireman's hold. He abandoned the shotgun in favor of steadying the dead weight he hefted, and ran like hell for the Riviera.

Pausing only long enough to toss Mulder's oblivious body into the seat ahead of him, Krycek climbed in and turned the engine over with a quick twist of the key. As he drove away, he tracked the progress of the UFO in the rearview mirror. At last sight, Little Jim appeared to have been sucked up into the craft. Oswald and company were still running pell-mell across the field in pursuit of their comrade, as Alex went over a rise in the road and lost sight of them.

OoooOOOOoooo

The radio blasted out, "Radar Love" as the Buick Riviera purred down the road with all the might of its V-Eight engine. Alex had cracked the window. His long hair was flowing in the wind, and he was feeling damn good!

A pool of dampness collected on Alex's leg. He'd propped Mulder in the passenger seat and fastened his seatbelts...DOT statistics don't lie you know, it is safer to wear a seat belt. However, somehow or other Mulder had drooped his way out of the shoulder belt. His mouth rested on Alex's denim clad jeans. His warm breath puffed over Alex's thigh and little Alex was standing up and waving. Sex, rock, and a hot car...that was living!

Snorting, Mulder came back to life. Cautiously, Alex pulled over down a dirt road that led down to the river that flowed a baleful muddy yellow across the flat landscape. He pulled to a stop, hidden from the road by a thin grove of the overgrown weeds that passed for trees in this harsh landscape. He didn't want to be driving if Mulder was going to go for his throat. 

Pushing himself upright, Mulder said, "Scully?" in a 'little boy lost' kind of voice.

Yeah, right, the jackass! Mommy went away and left you with no one but the big, bad, double agent to bail you out of trouble.

Rolling back against the greasy headrest, Mulder uttered a groan and gingerly touched the tar, which had already dried on his sparsely haired chest. His pretty nipples were untouched, but he was going to lose the patch of brown curls decorating his breastbone. Speckles of the stuff splattered Mulder's smoothly muscled arms.

"Krycek? How the hell did you get me in this car?" Mulder demanded.

So far, so good, he hadn't got physical. Mulder did look pitiful with the remains of his disguise, his tar bedecked chest, and the bump on his forehead. "The sod of the earth was distracted by a UFO before I could figure out a way to get you out of there without getting hurt," explained Alex.

"Why?" Mulder demanded.

"I don't really like getting hurt, Mulder," Alex answered.

And Mulder returned one of those 'God, grow a brain looks' he'd shot at Alex so many times when he'd been playing at partners. He said, "No, I meant why did you bother rescuing me? What are your intentions?" Soft chuckles bubbled from within Mulder's chest. Alex stared, dumbfounded, at the man whose whole body was shaking with laughter. 

"What?" Alex demanded.

Straightening at last, Mulder affected a Jane Austen voice and said, "Well? Your intentions? Are they honorable?"

"Shit, Mulder, you must have been hit on the head one too many times!" Alex exclaimed.

"Ouch! Fuck!" Mulder answered as he tried to peel the tar off his chest. "This won't come off." 

The back seat held a bag of groceries. Spaghetti noodles, a jar of ready-made sauce, a loaf of French bread, toilet paper, condoms, a bottle of extra virgin olive oil...

Alex grabbed the oil and said, "This might help. I'll just pour some of this on and see what I can do. Lift your chin."

It was a good idea. The oil spread soothingly over Mulder's chest and the man settled back, sprawled out, a sigh of relief quivering from his lips. Mulder had a pretty chest, lovely nipples. Lovely nipples that were peaking at Alex's occasional straying touches. Mulder's eyes opened, gazing at Alex beneath his lashes. 

The tar was yielding to the olive oil and to Alex's massaging hands. Soon he'd have to stop touching Mulder. There'd be no excuse. Alex gave a little frustrated sigh. 

"That feels nice," Mulder remarked, guiding Alex's hand lower, sliding it down his belly, guiding it between his boxers and his hot, hot skin. Alex nearly jerked his hand away as it encountered the hard, curved arc of Mulder's cock. 

Staring at Mulder, Alex could only wonder if the blows to the head had worked some marvelous change on Mulder's personality?

"One time only, Alex, payback," Mulder purred, plucking at Alex's turtleneck sweater. "I'm a man who pays his debts."

Shaking a little, distrustful, Alex pulled the garment off. Mulder had the button for his jeans undone in a moment. He eased the denim down off Alex's hips, taking the black briefs with them. "No more white BVDs?" Mulder asked.

"That wasn't me," Alex said, "It was somebody's idea of what a junior agent would wear."

"It was cute. Would you wear them for me again someday? Should have made a move then," Mulder mourned. 

Kicking his boots off, Alex started to pull off his jeans. Mulder reached down and tugged them off for him. Mulder lowered the seat suddenly, causing Alex to sprawl over him, having to catch himself quickly lest he fall over into Mulder's sore-looking chest. An easy move, flipping Alex over and straddling him on the seat, and the seemingly languorous agent had become a tiger.

Fortunately, Mulder was truly able to separate his feelings into neat boxes. This one was labeled XXX and high explosives. Mulder kissed as if he had a lifetime to do it. The first brush of his lips was like fire. Alex almost forgot to kiss back. One of Mulder's hands entwined with his, holding his arm down strongly. The other hand stroked through Alex's hair. He murmured words, which were smothered in his kisses. Alex couldn't quite make them out, but it didn't matter.

This moment was his. He would ask no questions, make no demands, take it all, take it, and keep it, hold onto it wherever he went and what ever happened to him. A moan fluttered out as Mulder let his hand go, to place it on his ass instead, stroking him, kneading him and Alex would have let him do anything, anything at all, as long as he didn't stop.

The car was roomy, but they still kept hitting into handles, knocking against the gearshift. Mulder swore and pulled away. Alex was afraid he had changed his mind. Instead, Mulder snaked an arm into the back and snagged a blanket that was crumpled there. "Let's take it outside."

The ground was cold, but Alex hardly felt it as Mulder pushed him down flat, his palms flat on Alex's thighs, holding him down. His hands felt like fire. And his mouth, that opulent mouth sliding down his cock, tongue exploring lightly. Sparks flew out from the nova of Mulder's interior. Alex was arching, aching, palpating with need.

"Wait, you can wait," Mulder chided. He stood up and returned to the car, Alex stayed as he had been left, afraid that if he moved the spell would be broken. 

Then Mulder was back, sliding a condom onto Alex, surprising him. He poured some olive oil on his hand and slid his fingers into his anus, preparing himself, making a show of it. He was meeting Alex's eyes, smiling down at him.

Reminding himself not to think, not to speculate beyond the moment. Alex moaned, putting the pictures away in his soul because his heart was not enough.

Then Mulder was on him, taking him...enveloping him. Their bodies straining towards each other. Alex managed to get his hand on Mulder, stroking him once or twice before Mulder shuddered and came. Alex wanted to hold back but it was too much and he spun away, falling back to Earth. A moment later, Mulder lay beside him shivering in the cold. Alex brought part of the blanket up to shield them. More kisses, Mulder's hands claiming him, remaking him, lips tasting him, devouring him. He was afraid. Mulder was taking him all, leaving nothing, and he was willing for it to happen. He offered it and at that moment, if Mulder had said he had to turn himself in, he might have done it for a kiss.

However, Mulder didn't. After a last kiss, his tongue wrapped around Alex's, Mulder said, "We're going to freeze, beautiful; let's get up."

Cleaning up the best as they could with paper towels and more of the olive oil, they were both silent, not looking at each other. "I should arrest you, Alex, you know that."

"I have the guns, Mulder." Alex said. He might be in love, but he still had his instincts. Dying wasn't on his agenda. Not for a long time. On the whole, he'd rather be in Philadelphia. 

Mulder looked at Alex and said, "Yeah, I see that. Oh, well, I'm not in a hurry to see you in jail. Why, Alex? Why did you do it?"

"Mulder, you have no idea what it's really like..." Alex said. "Come on, let's get out of here."

Mulder turned on the heater, tuned in the radio. Mulder locked his arms in back of his head and closed his eyes again. Alex glanced at him. It felt like old times. Mulder twitched, rubbed his nose. "We were good together."

"Yeah, we are," Alex said. "We are."

"Krycek, just because..." Mulder had sat up and now his eyes went round in surprise. He asked, "How fast can this thing go?"

"Pretty damn fast," Alex replied. His eyes checked the rearview mirror, seeing the cars moving up on them. "Oh, shit,"

"Yeah, that's my assessment too. Get us the hell out of here," Mulder yelled.

Gravel spun from beneath the wheels. Mulder turned around and gaped back. He said, "You know, Alex. There are cops back there. I can see the lights."

The siren squealed, but Alex kept going. There was a ton of dust and the engine hummed. After a while, Mulder started laughing and he yelled, "Yee haw, Alex, you got 'em. Just keep going...and don't stop."

And Alex laughed and that's what he did...

The end

 
    
    
    Uneasy Rider
    By Charlie Daniels
    
    I was takin' a trip out to LA toolin' along in my Chevrolet
    tokin' on a number and diggin' on the radio
    jes' as I cross the Mississippi line
    I heard that highway start to whine
    and I knew that left rear tire was about to go
    well the spare was flat and I got uptight
    'cause there wasn't a fillin' station in sight
    so I jes' limped down the shoulder on the rim
    I went as far as I could and when I stopped the car
    it was right in front of this little bar
    a kind of a redneck lookin' joint called the Dew Drop Inn
    well I stuffed my hair up under my hat
    and told the bartender that I had a flat
    and would he be kind enough to give me change
    for a one there was one thing I was sure proud
    to see there wasn't a soul in the place
    'cept for him an' me and he jest looked disgusted
    an' pointed toward the telephone.
    I called up the station down the road a ways
    and he said he wasn't very busy t'day
    and he could have somebody there
    in jest 'bout ten minutes or so
    he said now you jes' stay right where yer at
    and I didn't bother tellin' the durn fool
    I sure as hell didn't have anyplace else to go.
    I jes ordered up a beer and sat down at the bar
    when some guy walked in an'
    said who owns this car with the peace sign
    the mag wheels and four on the floor?
    Well he looked at me and I damn near died
    and I decided that I'd jus wait outside
    so I layed a dollar on the bar
    and headed for the door
    jes' when I thought I'd get outta there
    with my skin these five big dude come strollin' in
    with this one old drunk chick and
    some fella with green teeth an'
    I was almost to the door
    when the biggest one said
    you tip your hat to this lady son
    an' when I did all that hair fell out from underneath
    now the last thing I wanted was to get
    into a fight in Jackson Mississippi
    on a Saturday night 'specially
    when there was three of them and
    only one of me well they all started laughin'
    and I felt kinda sick and I knew
    I'd better think of somethin' pretty quick
    so I jes' reached out an' kicked ol' green-teeth
    right in the knee he let out a yell
    that'd curl your hair but before he could move
    I grabbed me a chair and said watch him folks
    'cause he's a thouroughly dangerous man.
    Well you may not know it but this man's a spy.
    He's an undercover agent for the FBI
    and he's been sent down here
    to infiltrate the Ku Klux Klan.
    He was still bent over holdin' on to his knee
    but everyone else was lookin' and listenin' to me
    and I layed it on thicker and heavier as I went .
    I said would you beleive this man
    has gone as far as tearin'
    Wallace stickers off the bumpers of cars
    and he voted for George McGoveren
    for president well he's a friend of them
    long-haired hippie type pinko fags.
    I betcha he's even got a Commie flag
    tacked up on the wall inside of his garage.
    He's a snake in the grass I tell ya guys
    he may look dumb but that's jus a disguise
    he's a mastermind in the ways of espionage
    they all started lookin' real suspicious at him
    and he jumped up an' said jes' wait a minute, jim.
    you know he's lyin' I've been livin' here all of my life
    I'm a faithfull follower of Brother John Burch
    and I belong to the Antioch Baptist Church
    and I ain't even got a garage -- you can call home and ask my wife/
    Then he started sayin' somethin' 'bout the way
    I was dressed but I didn't wait around to hear
    the rest I was too busy movin' and
    hopin' I didn't run outta luck and
    when I hit the ground I was makin' tracks
    and they were jes' takin' my car
    down off the jacks so I threw the man a twenty
    an' jumped in an' fired that mother up.
    Mario Andretti woulda sure been proud of the way.
    I was movin' when I passed that crowd
    comin' out the door and headin' toward me
    in a trot an' I guess I shoulda gone ahead
    an' run but somehow I couldn't resist the fun
    of chasin' them jes' once around the parkin' lot
    Well they're headin' for their car
    but I hit the gas and spun around and
    headed them off at the pass.
    Well I was slingin' gravel and puttin' a ton of dust
    in the air well I had them all out there
    steppin' an' a fetchin' like their heads were on fire
    and their asses was catchin'
    but I figured I oughta go ahead an split
    before the cops got there when I hit the road
    I was really wheelin' had gravel flyin'
    and rubber squeelin' an' I didn't slow down
    'til I was almost to Arkansas
    I think I'm gonna re-route my trip.
    I wonder if anybody'd think I'd flipped
    if I went to LA via Omaha 
    

  
Archived: May 13, 2001 


End file.
